Fingering The Family Jewels

by Greg Lilly

  “I know, Grandma. I wanted to see you. You feeling okay today?”

  “Yes, I feel fine. How about you?” she asked as she held tight to my hand.

  “Great. I thought I’d come visit, since I knew Mother would be at her book club. Where’s Dad?”

  “He’s playing golf. He’s starting out his retirement like most men.” She shook her head in mock disapproval.

  Martha brought out a glass of iced tea for me and placed it on the coffee table. I always liked the warm clean smell of Martha, a cross between mocha and Windex. She gathered up Grandma’s mail. “Miss Eleanor,” she leaned in and raised her voice, “I’m going to put this mail on the desk for you.”

  Grandma grinned at her and nodded. I wasn’t sure if she had heard everything Martha had said, but she seemed to understand.

  Unlike my last visit, neither Ruby nor Gladys was there to change the subject when Grandma started talking about the past, and since Martha had mentioned Grandma’s reminiscing, I seized my opportunity. “Grandma? Do you remember a black man who used to work for Papa Ernest called Mr. Sams?”

  Her smile wilted, and Martha stopped mid-step.

  “Is that a yes?” I asked looking from one to the other.

  “Where in the world did you hear that name?” Grandma asked. Martha turned to watch us.

  “I heard he was killed in that oak next to Walterene and Ruby’s house.” I watched their stern expressions.

  Grandma glanced up at Martha. “Go on and put that mail away.” Martha left us alone, and Grandma regained her composure; patting my hand, she said, “Mr. Sams did a bad thing. Papa fired him, then they found him in that tree. That’s all there is to that story.”

  “But,” I felt like she still thought of me as a six-year-old, “someone hung him from the tree. What did he do that Papa Ernest fired him?” I wanted to compare her story against what I’d read.

  She fidgeted with a linen handkerchief she’d pulled from her pocket. “A Negro can only get so close to a white family; why, Martha has been with me for over forty years, but she still knows to keep her distance.”

  “Distance?” I asked.

  “Getting too familiar, friendly, acting like part of the family.” Her moist hazel eyes held me for a moment, then she said, “Derek, you’ve grown so much. If you had a daughter who told you an old friend had touched her in her private places, wouldn’t you do something?”

  “Grandma,” I held her shaking hands, “sometimes little girls make up stories to get attention.”

  “Oh, I know that, but Papa wouldn’t hear of keeping Mr. Sampson on-”

  “Wait,” I interrupted, “his name was Sampson?”

  “Yes, Caleb Sampson, the children called him Mr. Sams; it was easier for the young ones to say.” She let her eyes drift to the floor.

  I wanted to get as much of the story as I could while she was willing. ”Go on. You said Papa Ernest wouldn’t hear of keeping Mr. Sampson on as the gardener.”

  “Well, Vernon was always Papa’s favorite. He saw him as his rightful heir. My brothers never satisfied Papa, so Vernon was his last chance.

  “Gladys, being my second child and a girl, always took a backseat to what Vernon got, and she knew it. I tried to make her feel special, and her father doted on her like she was a princess, but it never seemed to be enough.” A tear slipped down her wrinkled cheek, and she dabbed at it with her handkerchief. “I think that’s why she said what she did.”

  I thought back to Walterene’s account. “Could it have been an accident? I mean, Mr. Sampson playing with the kids as he had always done, and Gladys taking it as something more?”

  “Oh, yes, that’s what we all thought, but she wouldn’t back down. Papa finally decided, in order to make peace, he would get rid of poor old Mr. Sams. I think it devastated that man.” She took a deep breath and sat up a little straighter. “He worked here for years, started when I was young, and he so loved Gladys, watching her grow from a baby to a young woman, but that ended the day Papa fired him. Then they found him dead.”

  She didn’t continue, so I prompted her, “Did you know that some people thought Mr. Sampson had been lynched by a group of white men?”

  The statement didn’t seem to surprise her; she sat for a moment thinking, then said, “No, Papa wouldn’t do that. He cared for Mr. Sams, but again, he wasn’t family. We always were most important to Papa. He watched over us-and still does.”

  “How does he do that?” I asked, wondering if she might be getting confused in her thinking.

  “He’s in our blood. He made sure we married the right people, had the right children.” She laughed a short chuckle. “We’re like race horses. The bloodline stays pure. Do you know that Theodore is my third cousin?”

  Damn, my grandfather was my grandmother’s third cousin. “Isn’t that illegal?”

  “No, no,” she laughed. “Papa Ernest put us together, and within a year Vernon was born…” She drifted off into her own thoughts.

  “That kept the Harris name and bloodline for Vernon and Gladys,” I said.

  ” Vernon more than Gladys,” she added off-handedly.

  Confusion needled me. Vernonmore than Gladys? “How so?”

  “Oh, never you mind.” She patted my hand again. “When a man touches a girl in the wrong way, he must pay for it.”

  “But you just said that no one really thought Mr. Sams-”

  “Not Mr. Sams. Papa.” Her gaze was far off.

  Confusion prompted me to keep asking questions. Papa Ernest? He touched someone?”

  Her eyes returned to me, and I hoped her mind had clicked back to our conversation.

  “This has been on my mind lately.” She shifted on the couch and straightened her dress along her thin thighs. “I haven’t thought about it in years, but it keeps coming back, especially as the end gets nearer.” She rubbed her hand over her mouth as if trying to keep the words in. “Derek, you should never tell this to anyone.” She stared hard into my eyes.

  Nodding, I said, “Okay, Grandma, I promise.”

  “Papa Ernest… He…” She struggled for the words.

  “Go on. Grandma,” I said.

  ” Vernon is… Vernon ‘s daddy is Papa Ernest.”

  I couldn’t catch my breath.

  “He would come to me during the night after Mama had gone to bed. It started when I was sixteen.” More tears spilled down her cheek, and she brushed them away as if they stung.

  Chills tingled my hands, and my head ached. Papa Ernest molested Grandma, and Vernon was the result. Did anyone else know this? Gladys? Vernon?

  She leaned in closer to share her secret. “You see, I was afraid for Ernestine. She’s two years younger than me, and I thought he might try the same thing with her. So I never complained, never gave him a reason to stop with me and go to her.”

  Thoughts rumbled in my mind, but I concentrated on her words; I wanted to hear everything she had to say, I could tell her mind was clear; she didn’t seem to be confusing timeframes or searching for words as I’d heard her do before. She had something to tell and needed to clear her soul to someone. I felt honored she’d chosen me.

  The tears returned and flowed quickly down her face. She didn’t try to wipe them away this time. “He only stopped when I realized Vernon was on the way. Theodore and I married within a month. Papa said that the baby would have his blood and Theodore would give it the Harris name, making it the rightful leader of the family.”

  My confused thoughts bounced in my mind, but shock paralyzed me. I couldn’t ask questions; I could only nod.

  She continued, “Theodore was good to me, and we loved each other, but Vernon had the birthright, and as he grew up, he knew he was chosen.”

  I recovered enough to ask, “Does Vernon know who his father is?”

  “Yes,” she sighed. “Papa told him before he left for college, and I admitted it when he confronted me.”

  “But, why are you telling me?”

  “You never know everyt
hing about your family, and as families go, we have a lot of secrets hiding in dark corners. I know you aren’t close to us, and I don’t know why, but maybe a little truth about why we are the way we are might help you understand us-especially Gladys. I know she loves you and wants only the best for you.”

  Yeah, that’s why she does things like sending me away, banishing me from my family.

  “She has the best intentions,” Grandma said. “But, like with Mr. Sams, sometimes she doesn’t realize the full consequences.”

  I took the handkerchief from her and wiped away her remaining tears. “Grandma, thanks for telling me. I’ll keep it to myself.” Inbreeding, that explained a lot about Vernon. We sat on the couch holding hands, her head on my shoulder. Silence settled over us as my mind tried to absorb all my grandmother had revealed. I felt a little guilty about having pushed her for details, but I’d wanted the truth, and she seemed like the only one who knew the full story. Footsteps and rattling pans told me that Martha was in the kitchen.

  Grandma lifted her head. “I think I’d like to lie down for a while.”

  “Okay, Grandma. Let me help you upstairs.” We walked slowly up to her bedroom. I hugged her good-bye and promised to come back soon.

  Before leaving, I found Martha in the kitchen preparing a roast for dinner. “Can I ask you a question?” I asked.

  “You can ask, but I might not be able to tell you the answer,” she stated and turned from the oven to face me.

  “What do you know about Mr. Sampson’s death?”

  She took a breath, then turned back to the oven. “Nothing. Way before my time here.”

  “You never heard the name before?” I moved next to her so I could see her face.

  She walked away from me, fiddling with a timer. “I heard the name, but not much else.”

  “But,” I started.

  “Mister Derek, you best let the dead lie in peace. Don’t go bringing up ghosts that nobody wants to see.” Martha crossed her arms over her chest, and stared at me.

  Smiling, I conceded, “Okay, I understand.” Although I knew she would be a dead-end, her attitude only intrigued me more.

  Papa Ernest, Grandma, Vernon, Martha, and Mr. Sams; I drove away from the house on Dilworth Road wondering what else my family hid from me and hid among themselves, and how these secrets stirred the fog we viewed each other through.

  Chapter Eighteen

  VERNON IS PAPA Ernest’s son. The fact coiled in my head as I drove back to Carolinas Med. The shock of being a product of incest must have devastated him and influenced his relationships with the family. Did Vernon ignore the truth, or did he despise his grandfather for what he did to his mother? I pulled off Scott Avenue an into the parking garage.

  “What a fucked-up family,” I muttered.

  I sat in the car for a while, my mind numb, before I could muster the courage to face Ruby. Did she know? Did any of the cousins know? Vernon was the oldest of their generation, but that doesn’t mean he was the only one sired by their grandfather. Papa Ernest’s only other daughter was Ernestine, Walterene’s mother; could Walterene be another of his offspring? I reached Ruby’s room and took a deep breath before entering.

  She lay in her bed watching Oprah. “Derek,” she clicked off the television and slapped the remote on the blanket, “that young woman doctor told me I’d have to stay another night.”

  “Why? What did she say was wrong?” I hated that I hadn’t been there when she’d been brought back from the tests.

  Ruby rumpled the covers up under her ample chest. “Says I have to wait for a technician that won’t be here until tomorrow morning. I bet this is going to cost a fortune. Me laid up in bed for three days like some old woman.”

  I opened my mouth to remark that she was an old woman, but she must have read my mind; she held up her index finger to stop me from making the mistake of stating fact. “I,” she protested, “am just as strong as you young folks, and I don’t need all these expensive tests.”

  “Does your head still hurt?” I wanted to remind her why she needed to obey the doctor’s orders. “Dr. McConnell only wants what’s best for you, and if that means waiting for one more test, then you’ll do it.”

  She smiled and held her hand out for me. When I came within reach, she grabbed my hand and jerked me to her. ”See, I have plenty of strength.” She grinned.

  I laughed at her display. “It’s that bump on your head we’re worried about, not your biceps.”

  Doctor McConnell opened the door and pulled up a chair. I sat beside Ruby on the bed. The doctor opened her folder and explained the tests in detail as we listened.

  “So, she will be okay?” I summarized.

  “Yes, the test tomorrow is procedural, but I don’t think anything surprising will come from it.” Dr. McConnell closed the folder and stood. “Ms. Harris, get some rest, and we’ll have you out of here by noon tomorrow.”

  “Thanks, Doctor.” I walked her to the door. Once outside Ruby’s room, I asked in a quiet voice, “Is everything really okay?”

  “Oh, yes,” she said, “Ms. Harris is extremely healthy for her age. She could stand to lose some weight and cut back on her cholesterol, but overall she’s fine.”

  I thanked her again and returned to Ruby. She had opened a box of chocolate truffles Valerie had brought her and stuffed one in her mouth.

  “You know,” I began, “the doctor said it wouldn’t be a bad idea for you to lose a little weight.”

  “My girlish figure is my trademark,” she managed to say between licking her fingers.

  I let that opening slide since she was in the hospital. “Call Valerie and let her know about the tests. I need to get back and shower. I have a dinner date with Daniel.”

  “Bring him by.” She smiled, then changed her mind. “No, don’t. I can’t have him seeing me in this sexy nightgown. I might steal him away from you.”

  I rubbed the flannel sleeve of her gown. “You’re right, I better not let him see you in this.” The thought of nightgowns led to bedrooms and late nights; my mind clicked to Papa Ernest. “Oh, how long had Great-Aunt Ernestine and Uncle Walter been married when Walterene was born?”

  “I don’t know; Walterene was older than me, but I think about three years. Why?”

  “Just trying to get family history right in my mind.”

  She squeezed my hand. “I’m glad to see you’re interested in us. For the longest time we were afraid you had disowned the Harris family.”

  If only I could.

  THE OBSERVER BUILDING loomed before me as I pulled into the parking deck. The last time I had been there, I’d barely escaped with my life. The spring sun, still high in the sky, allowed plenty of light into the parking deck. I glanced around at the other cars, checking to see if anyone lurked nearby. Maybe I was overly cautious, but I eyed the entrance to the lobby and bolted toward it. A stocky black woman manned the reception desk. I asked for Daniel and she called him down.

  “Hello,” Daniel greeted. “I’m glad you could make it. How’s your aunt doing?” His brown eyes held me for a moment; a smile extended below his mustache, framed by those irresistible dimples.

  “She’s doing much better, but they still have one more test tomorrow morning.”

  He motioned me toward the elevator. “I still have a few more things to do. Come on up.” He pushed the button for his floor, then he turned and pinned me against the back of the elevator. “We’ve got twenty seconds before that door opens again.”

  Half of my thoughts involved alarm, panic, terror; the other half melted into lust, desire, and craving. Should I be afraid or excited? Why does he elicit both from me?

  His strong hands grasped my waist and pulled me to him; I closed my eyes, flinching and pursing my lips at the same time-ready for either outcome. His lips brushed mine; a tingle sparked through my spine, sizzling into a bolt that squeezed my arms around him. I pulled his body closer to me, not wanting to let him go. The fear of a second before shifted to embarrass
ment at suspecting him of anything sinister. Our kiss became more urgent as the elevator slowed. I felt him pull away, but I held him tighter.

  “Whoa, man.” He laughed and straightened his shirt. “Put that thought on hold. I can finish up my work in five minutes.”

  “Sorry. I’m just glad to see you. I’ll behave.” I grinned at him as the doors opened to a group of workers heading home for the night.

  Settling into the side chair as Daniel finished typing on his computer, I searched his cube for pictures of old boyfriends, but saw none.

  “There,” he pronounced, “I just need to submit this to the editor.” With a few more keystrokes, he turned off the monitor and grabbed his jacket. “All done. Want to grab a beer?”

  “That’s what’s been missing today-a beer.” I winked at him. “I knew something still needed to be done.”

  SEATED AT A sidewalk table in downtown’s Rock Bottom Cafe, we sipped our beer and watched people wander between restaurants and bars. Daniel’s choice of drinking locations intrigued me; the cafe shared the block with Mark’s Church Street penthouse. Coincidence? Maybe.

  The waitress scooted between the packed tables and chairs to reach us. Over the chatter and laughter of the crowd, she asked, “Can I get you two more?”

  Daniel flashed his dimples and ordered another round of beer. “This is a great place.” he commented. “There are pool tables inside, if you want to play.”

  “Do you come here a lot?” I asked, tearing off a small corner of the beer-soaked napkin and rolling it into a little ball. The warm breeze mingled with the spicy aroma of sizzling steaks and garlic-seasoned potatoes.

  “Not really,” he said.

  I searched my mind for a way to bring up Mark; I wanted to get his honest reaction.

  “I was thinking,” Daniel continued, “people in Charlotte aren’t that homophobic. I mean, the threatening phone calls and this incident can’t be because of my article. Not that I’m trying to excuse my mistake,” he added quickly. “I believe there has to be another reason. You haven’t been in town long enough to make any personal enemies.”